Thoughts of Brothers and Colonial Memories
by Twizardck
Summary: England stumbles on an autobiography that America wrote and turns to the page on when Colonial!America chose a brother. Oneshot, requested by lightning834.


**Thoughts of Brothers and Colonial Memories**

**A Twizardck Production**

**I do not own Hetalia**

**Birthday Update Fest – Number 14**

**This was requested by ****lightning834****. It's just a little oneshot that I guess is all right… Enjoy and Review!

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America had said that it was just inside the doorway of his room. But that bloody git lied, the jacket was not there. And I had searched his closet, his dresser, under his bed, and still that awful jacket he _insisted_ on wearing to _all_ meetings would not be found. By now I was ready to give up and tell him to find his own things and not send me after them.

Feeling around a sock drawer, my hand hit something hard. It gave me pause. But then I felt around again and hit it again. My curiosity rose.

Grabbing onto the object, I pulled out… A leather bound journal. And scrawled on the front in America's familiar, sloppy handwriting, were the words "The Autobiography of the Hero."

Peeking into the cover, I glanced at the date which dubbed it as written this same year. And this I just had to see.

I backed up and sat down on his bed, taking a deep breath. And then I turned to the first page.

O.o.O

"I had tried so hard to run away. Tried to run so far and fast that they wouldn't find me, but these two men with their strange wheeled thing they sat upon persisted. The found me just to point and argue, voices growing louder and their words changing. It was all so confusing.

The basic idea of their words was easy to understand – they were arguing over whose brother I was. As far as I was concerned, I had never had a brother. But it would be nice to have one. To have a brother to look after me and listen to me, and give me hugs when I needed them.

That was why this time I stayed, instead of running off farther into the prairies.

The first man was called France. He was tall and had long hair and wore bright colors. He seemed like fun. And he always smelled good – like some flower I didn't know the name of. He smiled a lot too. I liked France.

The other one was England. Shorter than France with hair cut closer to his head and walking around in greens and browns and the occasional red, he acted like someone in control. But he would yell louder and get angrier and say meaner things than France did. There was an ever-present smell of something _burnt_ on his skin, a smell that made me want to wrinkle my nose and cough. He scowled. I didn't like England so much.

Today things were taking a turn for the more serious. I had a feeling that whoever won today's argument would be my brother.

I was pleased when they decided to ask me who I would rather be with.

Though young, I was quick on the uptake and it was obvious that they were going to bribe me, try and coax me to either side. I saw no problem with this. Either way I would gain a brother.

England tried first, saying things I didn't know much about. All I knew was that the look on his face was scary. So scary that I screamed.

And the next thing I knew the most wonderful smell was wafting towards me and I was walking towards France, towards the plate of food he held out. My mind didn't register that it was a bribe. All that mattered was that I needed what was on that plate.

But my trance-like walk ended when I heard the distinct sound of someone crying. And I knew that it was England.

I remembered a time not to long before, but that I had forgotten because it wasn't necessary to think about in order to survive. How England had come to see me on his own and talked to me. England did that, not France.

The spell cast by the food was gone and now I was walking towards England, my hand held out. I felt my mouth move, words spill outwards.

"Are you okay?"

When England looked up there were still tears in his eyes, but a look of total shock was on his face. I understood why instantly.

I had just chosen England as my brother.

And it was the right choice. For while France would smile and give me food, he hadn't shown the outbreak of emotion that England did. I needed my brother to be able to show me love.

For the next few years, love is what I got."

O.o.O

I slapped the book closed, face flushed in embarrassment and annoyance, though in what percentage of each I was unsure. This was obviously meant for personal use. He had been completely open as to what he had thought of me, not all of it particularly flattering.

Getting up, I slipped the book back into the drawer, deciding something then and there. Whenever America needed, I'd be his brother, the rock that kept his foundation strong, kept him growing.

As I walked towards the door of his room, I spotted the jacket, right where he said it was. My face grew an even deeper shade of red as I grabbed it and pulled on the handle of the door.

I left the room. I left an unsatisfactory part of me with it.


End file.
